


Anthony Takes a Shot in the Dark

by PositivePumpkin



Series: Reversed!Omens AU [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley is Raphael, Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Minor Angst, Nurses, Other, Role Reversal, Romantic Fluff, World War II, nurse!anthony, reversed omens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 01:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20331457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PositivePumpkin/pseuds/PositivePumpkin
Summary: Anthony, or Antonia as she's going by now, works as a nurse in World War II. She does everything in her power to heal the wounded, even if it puts her in danger.





	Anthony Takes a Shot in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set before the 1941 church scene. It is based on [Speremint's reversed!omens au](https://speremint.tumblr.com/).

Anthony, or Antonia as she was currently known, was working as a nurse, moving from battlefield to battlefield. Wherever she went she worked miracles: healing those deemed to be too far gone; breathing life into people on the brink of death; making sure people with shell shock, battle fatigue, soldier’s heart (PTSD, fiend, update your vocabulary) had their minds put to rest.

The doctors, nurses, and patients all loved Antonia. Wherever she went people stared, following her tall frame. Many asked for a date, coffee, tea, some more brave souls asked for dinner, all were declined. Whenever asked, she simply said someone already had her heart, someone she’d known ‘forever’ and would spend the rest of time with, if he’d only accept her love. When pressed she’d say they were from opposing families and couldn’t be together. Of course, the other nurses all thought it was very romantic and talked about the possibility of eloping once the war was done.

Antonia laughed it off, but kept a hopeful look in her eye, before saying she’d wait for as long as he needed. In the meantime, she was content to help as many people as she could. And she did. Everywhere she went, people did better. She of course, wasn’t a ray of sunshine, she was still her snarky, spiteful self, and she didn’t let anyone think less of her or her fellow nurses for being women.

She’d earned all sorts of nicknames for this, Spitfire, being her favourite. The nurses she let call her cute little names such as Annie, Toni, and sometimes Tonia. Occasionally some of the men got a little overeager or aggressive, but Antonia always managed to calm them down or get them out of way. Harassment was quickly stomped out with her heel.

Of course, no human, man or otherwise, could control Antonia. She had often left to go to the nearest battlefield, walking amongst the injured and dead. For those she couldn’t save she prayed, for those on the cusp of death she offered some comfort before they died, and for those injured, but too far away to save, she healed.

Antonia stood in front of a soldier, recently shot. She softly whispered reassurances to the man, far too young to be in a war, far too young to die. She could see his life flashing before his eyes, snapshots of his time on Earth, his mother, father, siblings, the girl he was sweet on. Antonia moved towards him a miracle dancing on the tips of her well-manicured nails when everything slowed to a crawl.

It hurt.

More than anything she’d ever felt before.

Bullets ripped through her back.

Shredded through her stomach.

She looked at the man in front of her.

Then, the miracle she still had dancing on her nails, meant for healing.

She could use it on herself. Save herself from a discorporation.

Antonia didn’t.

Stumbling forward, she pressed her hand to the man’s wound, healing him so that he’d never been shot.

Saving his life, before she blacked out.

Azirafell had been working in British intelligence shortly after the war started. Afterall, England was his home and he’d be damned, er, twice damned if he let anything happen to it. So, he miraculously got a job as a sort of spy. He had agents of his own and wasn’t that a laugh? People that answered to him. One of which had a special assignment. To watch Anthony. Or, Antonia, as she was going by now. He occasionally got reports about her moving through battlefields, miracles following her everywhere she went. Azirafell wasn’t sure how she was managing, surely, she must be getting tired from all the work?

The agents he had working for him liked to gossip behind his back, called him a bastard, not that they knew he was aware. As such, many theories came up as to who this mystery woman is. Some thought she might be a German spy, but that wasn’t a very popular theory. The most popular theory was that she was Mr. Fell’s sweetheart. That he worried for her safety in the war, which was why someone was always assigned to watch out for her.

Which is why, when the person assigned to her came up to Mr. Fell’s desk, to report the latest development, there was tears in his eyes. “Mr. Fell, sir, I’ve some troubling news,” he said, before taking off his hat and holding it to his heart, “Miss Antonia, she’s been shot.”

“What?” Azirafell gasped, feeling as if the room suddenly went cold and his heart stopped. Dread settled dark and heavy in his stomach as he found himself standing up. “How? Where is she now?” Azirafell demanded, voice raising in volume as panic overtook him. He barely waited for the man’s stuttered response before he was out the door, rushing to the angel.

When he arrived, the staff in the medical tent parted for him. Doctors and nurses stared at him with some sort of awe, but then he must’ve looked frantic, asking for Antonia desperately. Azirafell looked at his dear girl, pale against hospital sheet white, sweat dotting her brow, and face twisted in discomfort.

“How did this happen?” Azirafell found himself asking. He raised a shaking hand to caress her cheek, she had quite the fever, especially troubling since the angel always tended to run cold.

“Oh, poor Annie, she was on the field, next tae a wee lad,” A nurse said solemnly. “The lad brought her in, says he woke up thought he’d been shot. Sweet, dear, Annie must’ve taken the hit.”

Or she healed him instead of herself, Azirafell thought bitterly. It wasn’t the kid’s fault, but he wishes she would’ve healed herself rather than some human. He thought briefly to making the rest of the kid’s days a literal Hell on Earth, but his-the dear Antonia wouldn’t want that, so he didn’t. “What was she doing there?” Azirafell choked out, voice rough with emotions he really shouldn’t have.

“Nothing and no one could stop her,” the nurse replied. “But then, ye must know how stubborn she is.” The nurse wrung out a cold cloth and placed it on Antonia’s forehead. “She was always runnin’ off, this isnae the first time, just the first time Annie didnae come back on her own.”

“Of course,” Azirafell said, voice hoarse, “so, how is she?” His eyes never left Antonia’s face, watching her ragged breathing and twitching eyelids, she was dreaming. He didn’t know angels could dream. With a thought and a stroke to her cheek he willed her to dream of her favourite thing in the world. He was surprised then, when she murmured his name and pressed face against his hand, a slight smile quirking her lips. 

The nurse swallowed nervously, before she pushed right on through, “well, the poor dear donnae look so good. She’s been quite torn up, nothing short of a miracle that she’s still alive.” She looked at Azirafell’s dark expression and quickly tried to put some cheer in her voice, “s’long as there’s nae infection and her fever breaks, she’s strong, she’ll pull through.” The nurse pat the demon’s shoulder awkwardly before bustling off to other patients.

“You better pull through,” Azirafell snarled, trying to sound threatening, but it was weak even to his own ears. He gripped the angel’s hand and squeezed once, hard, before holding it in both of his. Her hand was cold and clammy to the touch. He pressed some demonic magic into her wounds, cursing her to heal faster, so she can get back to working in this war.

Azirafell seldom moved from that spot, only when forced to move by the nurses and doctors when they change her bandages and check on how she’s healing. The demon regularly changes the cold cloth, glares down her wounds to prevent infection, and makes sure she has pleasant dreams when she rests. There are times when Antonia wakes, but she’s not lucid, babbling incoherently to her demon.

While he’s there his agents deliver him his paperwork, news, and updates. The demon would be completely honest in saying that he hates it, but so goes the saying, ‘as below, so above.’ Humans may have invented bureaucracy but Hell (and Heaven, he’s been told by the resident angel) have perfected it. Azirafell also had his agents pick up Antonia’s mail so he could forge the paperwork that Heaven demanded, and all she’d have to do was sign her true name.

It was while he was blatantly lying to Heaven in her name, that she woke and looked up at the demon sitting by her bed. It was dark, and only the skeleton crew remained, a single nurse and a single doctor. She blinked once slowly at him, seemingly confused.

“How are you feeling, my dear girl?” Azirafell whispered uncharacteristically gentle. He carefully brushed her hair back and out of her face. “You’ve been out for quite a while.”

“Are you really here?” Antonia asked, raising a hand to him only for the IV to hold her back. She looked at the tubes and needle, confused. Azirafell grabbed her wrist, gently but firm, to prevent her from ripping them out. At the contact she snapped her gave back to the demon. “This is real?”

“Of course, dear Antonia, I came as soon as I heard,” Azirafell stroked her hand that he continued to hold fast. “Do you remember what happened?”

Antonia closed her eyes, brow crinkling as she tried to puzzle out what she last remembered that wasn’t a dream. “There was a boy, who’d been shot. I healed him?” She looked to Azirafell for confirmation, and at his nod she continued, “I got hit in the back, shouldn’t I have been discorporated?”

“Well, the lad you saved carried you to the very medical station you were supposed to be at,” Azirafell tried to look discouraging, but he couldn’t hide the relief that she was lucid. He set his other hand on her forehead; it seemed her fever finally broke.

She moved the sheets off her and began deftly undoing the buttons on her hospital shirt. Azirafell sputtered, a flush spreading on his face, before he looked away, “My dear! What in Heaven’s name are you doing?” He forced himself to look once more when he heard the sound of fabric tearing.

Her modesty was barely intact, as she ripped her bandages open to get a look at the damage to her stomach. Azirafell focused solely on the stitches, multiple wounds in various states of healing. No infection, the worst wounds had already been mostly healed up, with the faint lingering aura of a demonic miracle, only Antonia and Azirafell could see, and even then, only when they were looking for it.

“You healed me?” Antonia asked, voice wavering slightly. She gingerly pressed a finger to what had been the worst of the wounds. It didn’t even hurt anymore, just a slightly puffy scar on her corporation. She could easily clean it up, make it so that it looked as if it had never happened. But, then, that tangible proof of Azirafell’s love, one that she could only sense in brief moments when the demon’s guard was down, she couldn’t erase it.

“Well,” the demon huffed, faux irritable, “I couldn’t very well leave you to get discorporated, who knows who they’d send to replace you while you were getting a new body.” He sniffed and turned his head away once more. “Now, please, do close your shirt.”

“Of course, fiend,” Antonia said, smiling beatifically. She did her buttons back up, not as urgently as before, but not lingering either. The exhilaration of seeing her friend, her immortal companion, was wearing off, making her moves sluggish. Her fingers fiddle with her top button, nervously fretting with it. “I’m kind of tired. Will you be here when I wake?” She bit her lip, daring to hope.

“Just rest my dear,” Azirafell offered a tight smile, and he held one of her hands in his, patting it reassuringly. He helped her lay back down and tucked her back into the bed. “Would you like me to read to you, darling?” He pulled out one of his old dusty books, seemingly out of thin air, but Antonia knew better.

“That would be lovely,” Antonia said, relaxing into the uncomfortable bed. She closed her eyes as Azirafell’s rich voice read aloud from one of his prophecy books. Eventually she fell back into a restful sleep, fingers brushing her temple as a familiar magic made her dreams most pleasant.

Just like Antonia feared, when she woke up in the morning, Azirafell wasn’t there. The only sign he was ever there, a mug of cocoa that had long gone cold and a magpie feather. Antonia tried to not let it bother her, but she was a little hurt that he hadn’t stayed. The nurses helped distract her as they puttered around her and swooned over her mystery man. To her embarrassment, the golden snakes winding her arms was a topic of much discussion. Apparently, the new popular theory was they were from rival mob families.

Antonia went back to work, almost as soon as she was up, much to the surprise and consternation of her fellow nurses and the doctors. She fell back into her work, harder than she’d been before, determined to help as many as she possibly could and to keep her mind off the demon haunting her dreams. Occasionally, when she was feeling particularly weak, she’d gently trace the scars on her belly, remembering fondly that Azirafell _did_ care, no matter how much he pushed her away. She wouldn’t see Azirafell again until 1941, during the blitz, when she was back to being Anthony.


End file.
